


Fiddlestan Collection - Oneshots

by Princessedelarue



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: (Chapter 12), (Chapter 14), (Chapter 5 and Chapter 14), Christmas, Halloween, M/M, Trans Fiddleford
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-07
Updated: 2016-06-26
Packaged: 2018-04-03 08:39:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 10,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4094338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Princessedelarue/pseuds/Princessedelarue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of oneshots originally posted on my tumblr account, fiddlestanfiction.<br/>Note that the stories up until chapter 8 were posted before the episode ATOTS and use the old names for the Pines twins (Stanley for the author, Stanford for Mr. Mystery). (Some day I may come back and change that, but for now I like it as a sort of timestamp for the fandom). In later chapters I'll specify which names are being used.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Acrophobia

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt from tickatocka on tumblr (airport-related AUs): you fell asleep and I started making funny faces at your kid to keep them amused and the steward mistook us for a couple au 
> 
>  
> 
> (Oh, was this supposed to be an AU fic? Whoops)
> 
> Warning for language. Stan hasn't really learned to censor himself yet.

Stan was not having a good day.

Despite his best efforts to convince his brother and his nerdy assistant to _drive_ to the grand canyon (what, like the eclipse wouldn't wait a couple days?), he was now seated on a tiny plane crashing through the stratosphere a million miles (more or less) above the ground. 

It had been nice of Fidds to offer to take the window seat and keep the blind closed, but Stan was still going to have to explain the scratches his nails were leaving in the armrests of this crappy seat to the stewardess. Lee snoring like a grizzly bear across the aisle (like they weren't about to plummet to their deaths at any moment) wasn't helping matters.

But that _wasn't_ the worst of it.

The two year old sitting on McGucket's lap screeching while he waited for his ears to pop _was_.

Just who's bright idea was it to bring that brat along? Okay, the missus was out of town and someone _had_ to look after the kid. (He  _got_ it, okay? It wasn't like he'd actually been suggesting leaving him to fend for himself, or whatever. That would have been a felony).  But why hadn't McGucket found an annoying teenage girl to babysit for a few days? That's what teenage girls were for!

No one ever listened to Stan.

His stupid brother had been so damn _enthusiastic_ to bring the tyke along, he'd practically packed the kid's bag for him.

Of course the screeching wasn't going to be bothering Lee. His brother could sleep through _anything_. And Fidds had trained parental-ears - probably heard the high-pitched whines as a freaking angelic choir, or something.

Fuck. 

 

* * *

 

Half an hour into the flight, the kid had calmed down some and Fidds had his head pressed against the plane wall, snoozing. Stan was keeping his eyes on the headrest in front of him, counting the fibres in the gross grey fabric and trying to pretend there was actual solid ground under his feet. His hands were starting to cramp up from where they were curled around and digging into his armrests.

From the corner of his eye he saw a little leg kick out. A small body squirm.

... 341, 342, 343... 

When the kid let out an inhuman squawk that was sure to turn into something major, Stan finally looked over at him. He clenched his teeth just waiting for the siren to go off, but nothing happened. Tiny McGucket was just sitting there looking at him. He wasn't even moving any more.

It was a little unnerving.

Stan stuck his tongue out without even thinking. The brat was making this already horrible experience a thousand times worse, okay? McGucket would just have to be glad he'd held back that other, more  _PG-13_ , gesture he so was fond of...

 

He hadn't expected the kid to _giggle_.  

He also hadn't expected to find it so damn _cute_.

 

* * *

 

Stan didn't know when Fiddleford woke up or how long he'd been watching them. He only knew how long it was going to take for him to live having McGucket see him make the dopiest faces imaginable at a happy, clapping toddler down.

(The answer was never. He was _never_ going to live it down).

He wasn't totally sure that the heat he felt on his face was just from embarrassment, either. Which was... disturbing. Fidds had a really nice smile, though (he'd never seen him smile like that before, _sweet Moses_ , who smiles like that?), and Stan was getting this funny feeling in his chest that reminded him a little of being praised by a teacher and hugged by his Ma, but totally different at the same time.

He knew he should probably say something. Something cool and apathetic. Something to keep McGucket from opening his mouth and making this warm feeling he didn't think he wanted worse.

But then there was a hand on his shoulder. He turned to the stewardess leaning over him. Her attention was drawn fully to Fiddleford's lap ( _the kid_ on Fiddleford's lap, Stan, _geez_ ).

"Lookit you! Are you having fun with your daddies, little man?" The young woman giggled high in her throat, then looked down at Stan and, in a slightly more serious but still too cheerful tone, "Just wanted to let you know, sir, that we'll be landing in a few minutes. If you could please put your seatbelt back on, that would be great!"

The stewardess moved on. The world  _below them_ moved on, spinning on it's axis, getting closer to that hour when its day would be interrupted by total darkness. But Stan froze. His eyes were glazing over, his mind was shutting down, the blood was leaving his face, and any minute now his heart was just going to stop beating.

Until Lee's cackling laughter set the kid beside him giggling again. That deep chuckle that followed was probably Fidds.

 

But he wasn't going to turn around and check.

 

And he was never going to fly again.   

 

* * *

 


	2. The Halcean Pool

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A collection of oneshots originally posted on my tumblr account, fiddlestanfiction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for non-graphic depictions of violence (and some mention of blood) and for a character death (but not really...)
> 
> Pre-ATOTS names used for this oneshot (Author Stanley, Grunkle Stanford)

The water of the pond was clear. He could see the bottom, a depth of eight feet at least, and the algae that covered it. Long tendrils rose out from the floor and moved sluggishly, side to side, in the gentle flow of the water. They wrapped loosely around the dead man’s limbs, exploring the new resident with intrusive, violating caresses.

Stan tried to scream, but the only sound that left his throat was a weak, tortured wheeze, like air escaping a balloon. He fell to his knees by the water’s edge, one hand covering his mouth and the other clutching at the fabric on his chest. The tears gathering at the corners of his eyes did not blur his vision; he could see the peaceful expression on Fiddleford’s face in cruel detail.

The hand at his chest moved forward to reach into the water, with no real intention but to get _nearer_. A mere instant after it broke the water’s surface something sharp clamped tightly around his wrist.

This time, Stan screamed.

 

* * *

 

Fiddleford was out of breath and starting to feel dizzy. Every path they took was similar. There was nothing distinct to mark their progress or to suggest that Stanford had been there. He was trying his best to keep up with Stanley, but his employer hadn’t slowed down since they had started their search.

Lee was a few yards ahead now, calling his brother’s name and moving recklessly through the underbrush. A low-hanging branch caught and ripped his shirt-sleeve as he barreled past it. He didn’t seem to notice.

Fiddleford had been about to call for him to rest a moment, to regroup, when they heard the scream.

All thoughts of rest fled.

 

* * *

 

Stanley reached the clearing first, but Fiddleford wasn’t far behind. Both gasped when they saw Stanford, obviously in pain, pulling against an arm that was part-way submerged in a small pool of water. Where Fiddleford’s reaction was to freeze in place, Stanley’s was to charge ahead.

He ran up behind Stan, wrapped his arms around him and leaned his weight back. They didn’t even gain an inch. Whatever creature had ahold of his brother did _not_ want to let go. Lee glanced down, but couldn’t see anything in the dark water.

It took all three of them, when Fiddleford had gotten over his shock to rush over, to pull Stan’s arm free. The sudden release had them falling back into one another and they lay together in a pile, catching their breaths, for a long minute.

Fiddleford was the first to sit up, but he was tackled down a moment later. He cried out and his arms flailed before he realized that it was Stanford, and not some pond creature, lying on top of him. Stan’s hands were fisted in the lapels of his jacket and his face was buried at his chest. Fiddleford raised his head off the ground, looking past the mop of sweat-soaked hair in front of him at broad, shaking shoulders. Muffled moans that vibrated through his small body suggested Stan was sobbing.

Stan’s state was confirmed when Lee pulled him, gently, off of Fiddleford. Stan’s eyes were closed against tears that fell anyway. His face was red and there was clear snot draining from his nose. He crumbled into his brother’s embrace and started to mumble incoherently. A hand stretched out to cling to Stanley’s shirt collar. It was the one that had been in the water and it was bloody.

Sitting up and pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, Fiddleford glanced down at his jacket to see that he’d been marked by those dark red fingers.

Stan’s ramblings were slowing down, becoming a little more intelligible, guided by Lee’s steady shushing. “I thought, I though he–” Stan hiccoughed and burrowed his face into Stanley’s neck, muffling his next words, but Fiddleford was almost certain he heard his name.

He couldn’t watch anymore. Fiddleford had never seen Stanford like this. The man was unflappable, ready to face any threat with a cocky grin and left hook. What had been different about this experience?

What horror had broken him?       

He was crawling to the edge of the pond without conscious thought. His heart dropped to his stomach when he peered into the clear water and he would have dived head first into it had a strong hand not pulled him back by his jacket collar.

Fiddleford started shrieking, reaching with both arms out to the pond and twisting away from Stanley’s hold, “Let me _go!_ Oh lord, my _son_ – I have to save _my son!_ ”

With his brother still pressed tight to his side, Lee was quickly losing his grip on his assistant’s jacket. He clenched his teeth and gave Fiddleford a hard shake. “ _Professor!_ ”

Fiddleford turned at the nickname and stopped his thrashing movements when he met Stanley’s firm gaze. He looked down at Stanford curled into him, whose eyes were closed tightly, as if in pain. Finally, he turned away, to sit with his back to the cursed waters, and rested his head on his knees. He fixed his glasses, which had gone askew in his struggles, and concentrated on taking in deep, shaky breaths.

Stanley gave him a few minutes to collect himself before asking, “What did you see?”

“My son,” Fiddleford answered him, gulping down bile that threatened to come out at the words. “He’d drowned.” He noticed that his cheeks felt wet and realized that he’d started to cry.

Air whistled out through Stanley’s front teeth. With this new information his mind was finally beginning to piece things together. “It was a trick, Fiddleford,” he explained soothingly. He clapped his free hand gently on his friend’s back. “It tries to lure you in by showing–” Realization hit him like a brick to the face. He looked down at his brother, who had gone quiet and had probably passed out, and remembered the sobbed explanations he’d whispered into Stanley’s neck.

The pool lured you in by showing you someone who’d drowned.

Fiddleford had seen his son. The person he cared more about than anyone else in the world. The little boy he’d sacrifice anything to protect.

Stanford had seen Fiddleford.

Stanley looked back up to Fiddleford’s confused stare. He cleared his throat, glanced quickly down at his brother, and croaked out, “Let’s go home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got this idea late last night (and wrote until 5:00 in the morning because I just had to get it out). I was sure that there already was a myth exactly like this, but I couldn’t find one. There are many different mythological creatures that lure adults/children to drown, and some that pretend to be drowning themselves, but I couldn’t find one that shows a person you care about drowning… So, I seem to have made this up. (If someone else finds a myth like this, let me know!)
> 
> I took the name from a Greek myth, Alcyone and Ceyx, who were turned into halcyon birds after their deaths by drowning, allowing them to be together for eternity. (It’s a romantic and awful story; look it up!) I changed the spelling (and consequently the pronunciation) to make the name distinct.


	3. Jealousy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From a list of dialogue prompts originally posted by brokenbellamy on tumblr (see my tumblr page, fiddlestanfiction, on July 6th 2015 for the complete list).
> 
> powderedsugarfrost requested: Stanford, starting with "Wait, are you jealous."

“Wait, are you jealous?”

Jumping knee-high into the air wasn’t good for old bones, especially ones that had spent so many nights cramped in a rusted-out bathtub. Fiddleford clapped a steadying hand on the small of his back as he turned to the man now standing behind him. “I don’t reckon I know what ya mean, Stanferd.”

Stan raised an eyebrow at him. “You said you wanted to help tuck in the twins, McGucket, and then you disappeared.”

That’s right, he had. The small ones had fallen asleep right in the middle of their movie night. Stan had carried both from the room at the same time, the charming girl tucked in the crook of one elbow and the inquisitive young man propped up against his chest. Fiddleford had followed them up the creaking stairs, wringing his hands as he watched Stan’s feet move carelessly against the sagging floorboards.

When they had made it, safely, to the attic bedroom Fiddleford had hung back at the doorway to watch Stan ease little Mabel under the covers. He kept a hand on the back of the boy still in his arms while he bent forward to give a sweet kiss to her forehead. Fiddleford had withdrawn before Stan could give the same treatment to the boy.

(Dipper. His name is Dipper.)

“That doesn’t follow from yer first test-ie-monial, there, Stanferd.” The other man’s brow crinkled in confusion, so he was forced to clarify, “Why – why would you think I was j-jealous?”

A wicked grin spread over the conman’s face. “I don’t know, nerd. Maybe _you_ wanted to be carried around in these arms,” he crowed, raising his arms to flex his, admittedly, still quite fine triceps. The moron.

Fiddleford smiled weakly and shrugged. He eyed the door to the kitchen and wondered whether making a run for it would be worth such a high chance of being caught.

Stan stepped forward before he could make up his mind. He cupped Fiddleford’s jaw with both hands, pushing the sides of his beard up to scratch at his chin. Concerned eyes burned into him. “What’s wrong, Fidds?”

Shaking his head against those hands, he tried to play it all off as nothing important, “I’m just being an ol’ fool is all.” He swallowed thickly before continuing, “Seeing those kids, it… it’s making me a bit nostalgic.”

Stan shifted his hands to wrap tightly around Fiddleford’s waist and before he quite understood what was happening the inventor was sobbing into his partner’s chest.

“I miss him.” His boy, his little tater tot. How long had it been since he’d held his child in his arms? How many tuck-ins had he missed because of that damned memory eraser? “I miss him so much it –” a hiccough stalled the words in his throat and he abandoned them entirely.

A kiss was pressed to the grey hair at his temple. Stan held him, letting him cry without pushing him to calm himself. The only thing he said, over and over again while they stood there huddled in the shack’s living room, was a sympathetic, “I know.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, why do I keep including Fiddleford's son in these oneshots? They were written at totally different times, with different sources of information... 
> 
> Pfft, stay tuned to see how ranger Tate McGucket will appear in the next one! Haha


	4. Fear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another of the dialogue prompts - From anon – “Don't you ever do that again!” preferably in an argument.
> 
> Fiddleford and Stan aren’t together at the start of this story.
> 
> This oneshot uses Pre-ATOTS names for the twins (Author Stanley, Grunkle Stanford).

“Uh, boys?”

The Pines twins stopped rowing to look in the direction Fiddleford pointed. A black swarm of insects was approaching their little canoe at a high speed.

Stanley dropped his oar with a cry of, “They’re early!” while Fiddleford froze in place. Stanford was the only one to take action; he grabbed both sides of the boat and started to lean heavily, one way and then the other; rocking them until they were pitched head-first into the lake.

The muggy water was disorienting. Fiddleford kicked out his legs furiously, using one hand to keep his glasses firmly on his nose and the other to propel him forward, but he couldn’t seem to find which way was up. Panic was just starting to take hold of him when he was suddenly pulled under the flipped canoe. He gasped and coughed, gulping down a mouth-full of the foul-tasting water, when he broke the surface. Stan released his arm once he’d settled down.

Stanley surged up beside them. He started to murmur to himself, trying to figure out where in his calculations he’d gone wrong. They had been charting the flight pattern of those giant, man-eating wasps by the devastation they’d been leaving through the woods since they first found the abandoned nest. That they may never know what fierce predator had caused the colony to migrate wasn’t as much of a concern as how close the swarm was getting to the town of Gravity Falls.

From what they’d observed, the swarm should have been just passing through Scuttlebutt Island at dusk today. The three of them had spent all day there yesterday assembling a trap he’d designed and they’d been rowing back out this afternoon so that they would be ready to set it off as soon as the wasps were in position.

Apparently the plan had failed.

“Would you shut up already, Lee? You’re giving me a headache.”

If Fiddleford hadn’t been there bobbing between them Stanley probably would have punched his brother in the face. “We _messed up_ , Stan!” he shouted in a high-pitched voice that echoed off the bowed wood. “We can’t set off the trap, the swarm’s headed straight for the town, and we didn’t even _warn_ anyone about it!” He’d been so stupid, so sure that he had everything under control, that he’d put innocent lives at risk.     

“Uh huh.” Stan rapped his knuckles against one side of the canoe distractedly. “It’s the rope on the left that needs to be cut, yeah? Not the one on the right?”

Stanley nodded glumly without giving much thought to the question, but Fiddleford caught its implication immediately. “Stanford, no!” He grabbed the front of Stan’s soaked shirt to pull himself closer and stared up at him with pleading eyes. “They’ll kill you!”

The expression on Stan’s face was calm, even a little amused, when he looked back at Fidds. “That reminds me,” he whispered. He placed a hand on the small of Fiddleford’s back and leaned in to press a chaste kiss to his lips. Then he pushed away, took in a deep breath, and disappeared under the water.

Shocked silence filled the small space. It was broken by a heart-wrenching cry of, “ _No!_ ” as Fiddleford made to dive after him.

Stanley caught his assistant under both arms. He held on tight as Fiddleford flailed, splashing water into their faces and kicking at Lee’s sides. “Fidds, stop! It’s too late. He’s already gone.” He winced when he realized how that sounded and quickly explained, “What I _mean_ is Stan’s a strong swimmer, okay? If anyone can get to that island in one piece, it’s him.”

Fiddleford stopped struggling to slump against Stanley’s chest. He sniffed against tears that were threatening to fall and asked, in a voice that was choked with desperation, “What are we going to do?”

Stanley swallowed against a lump in his throat. “We should get to shore.” He shifted until Fiddleford was floating on his own and then turned to place a six-fingered hand on each side of the boat, angling his legs to swim forward. He checked back over his shoulder to make sure Fiddleford was doing the same.

Their pace across the water was sluggish and they couldn’t tell where they were headed. Occasional buzzing overhead would make Fiddleford whimper, but otherwise they travelled in silence.

Finally, Stanley’s feet brushed against sandy ground. He pushed forward until the end of the canoe caught on shore and stayed still, kneeling in the shallow water, to listen.

A knock on the bottom of the boat made both scientists jump. Stanley lifted one side cautiously, then shot forward to tackle Ford with a hug. He thanked whatever force it was that gave them the dumb luck to land on Scuttlebutt Island and kept his brother safe.

Fiddleford crawled from the water more slowly. He stood on shaking legs and pointed an accusing finger at Stan. “You _idiot!_ ”

The twins separated. Stanley called his assistant’s name, but Fiddleford didn’t hear him. He kept his attention focused on Stanford.

The grin that had spread across Stan’s face at the first sight of the canoe pulling in was quickly fading. He hadn’t gone through all that trouble, risking life and limb, to be called names. “ _Excuse_ me?”

Fiddleford scowled. “I can’t _believe_ you did that!”

“It’s not like we had a whole lot of options there, Fiddlebreath!” Stan growled back.

Fiddleford took a step forward. The adrenaline running through him was making his voice shrill, “You just left us there! You could have died and we –” he choked on the last words. The memory of that moment just before Stan dipped into the water had him bringing a hand to his lips.

It was the sweetest and most terrible moment he could ever remember having.

He pulled his hand away and balled it into a fist. Then he glared at Stan, whispering fiercely, “Don’t you ever do that again!”

Stan had never been that good at understanding body language. He assumed Fiddleford’s warning was about the one selfish act he’d made that day: “The kiss?” and felt rejection clawing at his ribs. He scrambled to save face, “That was – that was just a joke, ya know,” crossing his arms over his chest and rolling his eyes to the side like he couldn’t care less.

It was one of his only tells, but Fiddleford knew it well.

He walked forward, glancing briefly at his anxious-looking employer as he passed, until he was inches from Stan’s chest. Then he reached up to hook arms around Stan’s neck and pull him down.

Their lips met in a kiss that was so much _more_ than the last. They pressed firmly against each other, Stan’s arms coming to rest on Fiddleford’s hips, and felt charged all at once with passion, anxiety, and relief.

Stan pulled away, but kept the embrace. Fiddleford’s eyes were watery behind his glasses.

“Don’t you ever scare me like that again, Stan Pines.”


	5. A Pregnant Pause

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another one of the dialogue prompts - From anon: here's a pairing for you sweetie Fiddlestan and the one I would love is 27 please and thank you – “I’m pregnant”
> 
> I decided to take the line in a literal, rather than a figurative, sense.
> 
> Please note that I am not a trans person. I’ve tried to take on the perspective of a trans man, and to imagine the gender dysphoria that may accompany being pregnant, but I haven’t had an actual experience that could really compare. I’m sorry if I’ve portrayed anything in this story unrealistically – if anyone sees a mistake they should absolutely feel free to discuss it with me! 
> 
> If you look at the original posting of this story on my tumblr page (fiddlestanfiction) you can find a link to a very supportive website on nursing as a trans man or trans woman, which I used as research for this oneshot.

When Stan found his favourite nerd sitting on the steps of the back porch he kneeled down behind him and wrapped thick arms over his waist. He hummed happily to himself, rested his chin on top of Fiddleford’s head, and let his eyes fall closed.

A hitching breath made them fly open. There was a tightness in Fiddleford’s shoulders that he hadn’t noticed before.

“Stanford.”

Stan shifted, moving cautiously to sit beside his boyfriend. He left enough space between them so that he could clearly see the emotions flickering on his face. He held his breath.

“I’m pregnant.”

A smile was spreading across Stan’s face before his brain had even fully processed the statement. He could feel his chest swelling, with _pride_ , and _awe_ , and _love_ , and… but then he saw tears rolling down Fiddleford’s cheeks.

He lifted a gentle hand to Fiddleford’s shoulder, pushing down panic before it could reach his voice, “Hey, it’s okay! Fidds what – talk to me here.”

“Do you want me to have this baby?” Fiddleford asked quietly. That he still hadn’t looked at Stan was worrying.

He replied with a cautious question back, “Do you?”

“I don’t know!” Fiddleford started to wring his hands. Concerned that he might scratch himself, Stan reached out to clasp them tightly in his. “People are going to _know_ , Stanford. I won’t be able to hide it and –” his breath caught and he continued in a rush, “And I – I won’t be able to _bind._ I –” before he broke down into heaving, shuddering sobs. Stan let go of Fiddleford’s hands to fold him into his arms.

While the smaller man cried into his shoulder, head tucked in the crook of his neck, Stan thought back to the first time Fiddleford had let him see his binder, a few months after they’d started dating. Fidds had trembled, his shirt lifted just enough to show a trace of the tight cloth, and he’d pulled away when Stan had reached out, unconsciously, to touch it. They’d made such progress together, slowly but surely. They’d gone from never talking about the binder to Stan helping him to dress with it.

The amount of trust that Fiddleford had placed in him was staggering.

“You don’t have to do this, Fidds,” Stan murmured into soft, floppy hair.

The engineer pulled back to look up at him with uncertain blue eyes. “But you want a baby. I can tell, you –”

“I’d _love_ to have a baby with you, Fidds,” Stan cut in. He smiled widely, tilting his head down to press their foreheads together. “But it doesn’t have to be like this. It doesn’t have to be _now_.”

When Fiddleford, obviously overwhelmed, took in a shaky breath and closed his eyes, Stan leaned in to tenderly kiss the side of his nose.

“Take your time, think about it.”

Standing up, stealing away from that secure embrace, was one of the hardest things Stan had ever done, but he knew that he had to take himself out of the equation for Fiddleford to make the right decision.

“Stanford?” Fiddleford called, just as he was opening the door to the house. Stan turned to meet his gaze. “Do you think I would be a good father?”

That was an easy answer. “The best,” Stan assured with a grin.

Fiddleford peered down at the porch steps, biting his bottom lip, and nodded. “Okay.” He swallowed and looked solemnly up at Stan. “Let’s do this,” he whispered.

Stan was back kneeling beside him in an instant. His eyes searched his partner’s face, looking for any sign of regret or doubt. “Are you sure?”

Arms wrapped their way around his neck. Fiddleford’s cheek grazed his, nuzzling against Stan’s stubble and rubbing tears into his jaw.

“Just… be patient with me,” he sighed. “Please.”

Stan breathed deeply, bringing his hands up to rub reassuring circles into Fiddleford’s back. “Of course.”


	6. Rain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another dialogue prompt: For foronceimactuallyinnocent - Fidds saying 21? - “We’re in the middle of a thunderstorm and you wanna stop and feel the rain?”

The rain starts suddenly; countless fat drops splashing against their skin and leaving dark stains on their clothes. They were examining a two-inch tall deer grazing nearby. He scurries away into the underbrush before the onslaught can drown him.

“The research!” Fiddleford cries, staring pathetically at the stack of slick sheets flopping against his hand. He pulls his sweater vest and undershirt from the waistband of his slacks to stuff the soaked pages underneath, unintentionally giving Stan a glimpse of his soft, pale midriff. Then he spins on his heel in the direction of the Pines twins’ home. If they run, he thinks, they can be out of this downpour in a few short minutes.

“Wait a sec, Fidds.”

The engineer turns back, jerking his head to flick wet hair from the lenses of his glasses.“What is it?”

Taking in a deep breath of musky, moss-scented air, Stan raises both hands to cup the raindrops falling steadily from the sky. He closes his eyes and tilts his head back. A murmur of thunder in the distance makes him grin.

Stan’s posture and the peaceful expression on his face remind Fiddleford of a monk deep in meditation. It’s rather annoying.

“We’re in the middle of a thunderstorm and you wanna stop and feel the rain?” Fiddleford asks, incredulously.

He’s always known Stan Pines to be impulsive, but this is ridiculous.

Stan has to blink away water sticking to his lashes before he can meet his friend’s glaring gaze. “Come on,” he whines, “it was so _hot_ today. Isn’t this refreshing?” He swings his arms out even further, laughing as he exclaims, “Doesn’t it make you feel _alive_?”

A flash of blue light lends an eerie quality to their surroundings. “It makes me feel cold and damp,” Fiddleford retorts. Thunder that sounds much too close (they _really_ should be going) dials up the pitch of his voice, “A–and –”

“Grumpy,” Stan finishes under his breath.

Nervous irritation makes Fiddleford’s teeth clench. Stan grabs him by the shoulders when he moves to turn away.

Stan slides his hands slowly along Fiddleford’s arms, pausing at his wrists to gently twist until his palms are face up. They curl around Fiddleford’s own, much smaller, hands, holding them up to let water pool along their creases. Stan’s chin drops forward and his eyes close as he whispers, “Don’t think. Just _feel_.”

As though at the command, Fiddleford’s mind goes blank. His glasses have turned foggy in the moist air, but he peaks over the lenses to stare dazedly at the man in front of him.

Stan’s normally slicked back hair is a frizzy mess. Loose little curls outline his forehead where they lie flat against his skin. His cheeks are flushed and his lips are parted, but only slightly.

Fiddleford is reaching up on his toes to steal a kiss without a single thought of the consequences.

Brown eyes shoot open and a gasp splits the air between them. Fiddleford takes a step back, pulling his hands hastily out of Stan’s grasp. There’s an apology working its way up his throat but it’s blocked by thick fingers hooking around his neck and thumbs caressing his jaw.

Stan repeats himself, “Don’t think,” while he leans in to recapture Fiddleford’s lips with his. He hums against the smaller man to the vibrations of thunder rolling past them. The air feels charged, spurring him on to press and pull with increasing desperation.

A bolt of lightning severs a tree five yards away clean in half and they jump apart.

Panting, eyes wide, Stan makes a loose gesture behind him. “Maybe we could, uh, put a pin in this?”

They’re already running, hands clasped tightly together, when Fiddleford replies, “Agreed!”


	7. Terrified

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yet another dialogue prompt - From two anons: 32 for the dialogue prompts/I adore your writing!! If it hasn't already been suggested dialogue prompt #32 - “I think I’m in love with you and I’m terrified.”
> 
> I keep forgetting to write this - but thank you so much to everyone that's reviewed this collection so far!
> 
> [Please note that this one shot uses Pre-ATOTS names - Grunkle Stanford and Author Stanley]

The cardboard of the to-go cups was thin; it offered little protection against the scalding coffee inside. Stanley registered the heat pressed into each hand, the sharp pain where fingers met palm, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

His brother was in the hospital with a cracked skull. He’d been lying, unconscious, on a stiff sterile mattress for hours and it was all Stanley’s fault. He was always dragging Stan and Fidds along on wild hunts, putting their lives at risk for the sake of his ‘research.’ It was a wonder one of them hadn’t been hospitalized months ago.

As he made his way down the brightly lit hall leading up to Ford’s room, he could hear a higher-pitched man’s voice talking softly in something of a southern drawl. It had to be Fiddleford, but who was he talking to? Stanley’s pace slowed as he strained to listen.

“– the first day we met?” Fiddleford sounded pretty cheerful, but something was off. Stanley couldn’t quite put his finger on what. “You called me ‘Fiddlenerd’ and I got so flustered.”

 _Stan_ had given him that nickname – he was awake? Stanley rushed forward into the room, already grinning, but he stopped short when he took in the scene in front of him: Fiddleford was seated in a wooden chair beside Stan’s bed; his brother’s eyes were closed, his head tilted lifelessly on the pillow behind him, body slouched against the raised mattress… It didn’t look like either of them had moved since Lee left.

As he stood staring, frozen, in the doorway, Fiddleford gently lifted one of Stan’s limp hands to hold in both of his. He rested his chin on Stan’s fingers, murmuring, “I don’t think you’ve ever used my real name,” into his knuckles.

Stanley had a distinct feeling of guilt, intruding on such a private moment. He took a cautious step back into the hallway and leaned until his body was rested on the wall beside the door, hidden from view. He considered wandering off for a bit, of maybe finding his way back to the cafeteria, but a noise from inside, something between a laugh and a sob, made him pause.

“All those nicknames used-ta drive me up the wall,” he heard Fiddleford say before he made that awful sound again.

Stanley peaked around the doorway in time to see his assistant press a slow kiss to the back of his brother’s hand. There were tears running down his cheeks and dripping from his chin. “I’d give _anything_ to hear them again,” he finished.

Laying his forehead against the doorframe, Stanley looked on with pity curling in his gut. He bit his lip when he noticed that Fiddleford’s shoulders had started to shake.

“You’ve always been so strong. I–I need you to be strong now, alright?” the engineer sobbed out. “I need you to be okay or else...” His breath caught. When he finally exhaled, he tilted his head forward to nuzzle at Stan's hand, muffling the words, “I don’t know what I’ll do.”

Stanley’s own eyes were beginning to water. He shut them tight, trying against all odds to keep himself together.

“Stanford, I –”

A long pause piqued Lee’s curiosity. He looked up to see that Fiddleford had straightened. He still held Stan’s hand tightly in his own, but he was peering intently at his brother’s face, as though he were trying to make eye contact. Finally, in a voice that was firm but rushed, he said, “I think I'm in love with you and I'm terrified.”

One of the cups slipped out of Stanley's hand so suddenly that he only realized his mistake _after_ it had clattered to the floor. Its lid popped open when it made contact with the ground, splattering long tendrils of coffee a couple of feet down the hall. He stared at the mess in mindless horror.

“Stanley?”  Fiddleford called from inside the room.

The researcher took in a deep breath. He fixed a smile to his face before making his entrance, stepping carefully around the spill and wiping his newly freed hand on his jeans. “Hey doc,” he greeted lightly. 

Fiddleford had let go of Stan's hand and was wiping furiously at his eyes. Every few seconds he'd glance up at his boss, obviously trying to be discrete while checking for signs that he'd heard the confession.

“Uh, here,” Lee said, handing Fiddleford the remaining cup. Rocking back on his heels, he stuck his hands in his pants’ pockets and nodded toward the unconscious man on the bed. “So, how’s he doing?”

Taking the opening Stanley offered, Fiddleford turned his attention back to Stan. “His colour’s better, don't you think?” A wet sniff suggested he’d started to cry again. “Not as pale?”

“Yeah,” Stanley agreed, resting a hand on Fiddleford’s shoulder. “I think it’s going to be okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, it bugs me that Stanley didn’t do anything to clean up the coffee he spilled. That would have interrupted the story too much, but still – you’re in a hospital, Stanley! I guess this just another example of me writing a character doing something I absolutely wouldn’t do or condone in others – please clean up after yourselves when you’re visiting a hospital and alert a staff member if you’ve made a mess you can’t clean! Don’t pull an Author here, guys.


	8. Say Something

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a short story to kick off Fiddlestan Week on tumblr - today's theme: Music. It takes place (if it isn’t obvious) during the episode “Double Dipper” and assumes that Fiddleford and Stan had a relationship before Fidds started to abuse the memory gun. (Although the exact circumstances and timeline of that past relationship has been left up to the reader).

This party was Stan’s most ingenious idea to date. The place was already _packed_ with sweaty, zit-covered teens and there were plenty more lined up outside waiting to get in. If all it took to get these punks to blow their allowance money at the Shack was blaring music and cheap snacks, he’d happily throw a shindig like this every week!

Soos was doing a pretty okay job as DJ. Sure, Stan didn’t recognize half the songs he played, but at least they all had good beats. His toes really started tapping to that one about the gal turning twenty-two – if it’d gone on a little longer he would have shown these kids some _real_ moves on the dance floor. But just as he was getting ready to cut a rug, the tempo changed to something softer.

All at once the twerps were pairing off. A notable exception was a group in the back around his niece and nephew’s age, who had stopped dancing to huddle together in a clump and make goofy faces at each other. He was pretty sure he saw Mabel’s mop of brown hair among them. And although most of the young couples swaying awkwardly to the music were of the typical boy-girl variety, Stan spotted a few less conventional pairs smattered throughout the crowd.

In public and everything.

Maybe this generation wasn’t such a lost cause, after all.

He was about to head to the kitchen to grab a few more bags of marshmallows, to refill the snack table (and maybe give these kids a little bit of privacy, just this once), when a young man’s voice crooned out of the speakers.

_“Say something I’m giving up on you.”_

It was strange, this… tension that caught hold of him. That kept him frozen in place.   

_“I’ll be the one if you want me to.”_

Suddenly, and against his wishes, Stan’s mind was conjuring up images of a handsome young man, with prematurely greying hair and a loose-fitting suit. He was smiling at him. Laughing and lightly touching his arm.

_“Anywhere I would have followed you.“_

Holding something that looked far too much like a gun, all the humour gone from his face.   

_"Say something I’m giving up on you.”_

Stan was pushing his way past, and sometimes through, pairs of young dance partners without any conscious awareness of what he was doing.

_“And I am feeling so small. It was over my head; I know nothing at all.”_

When he finally reached the stage he was panting. “Switch the song, Soos,” he called as he stepped, nearly tripped, onto the platform.

_“I’m sorry that I couldn’t get to you.”_

His handyman stared at him, understandably puzzled. He had the presence of mind to cover the microphone in front of him before he began to argue, “But Mr. Pines – a good DJ knows to keep a five to one ratio of fast to slow songs for…”

_“– I’m giving up on –”_

“Change the damn song!”

His tone had been too loud and too harsh, but it got results. A peppy pop song cut into the room to throw off the partyers, making a few dancers step on their partners’ toes and a few more boo at him. But so what if they were disappointed?

What difference could one song make?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know Fiddleford was actually at this party, sleeping on a chair until Pacifica bribed him to clap for her, but I don’t think Stan ever saw him. Speaking strictly in canon, he would probably have kicked him out if he’d seen him there.
> 
> (And hey, maybe Old Man McGucket applauding during the competition scene was what finally drew Stan’s attention to him. Maybe that’s why Stan was noticeably absent when Mabel lost… but I’ll leave the thought there. Make of it what you will.)


	9. What He Deserves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short submission for Fiddlestan Week on tumblr, for the Final Day: Closure. (The two stories I posted this week as separate works are also part of Fiddlestan Week - "A Matchless Match" is for Day 2: An Outside Perspective and "Yours to Miss" is for Day 4: Memory Lane). 
> 
> This story was inspired by an amazingly sweet picture drawn by jamiekinosian on tumblr - you can see it in my original post (http://fiddlestanfiction.tumblr.com/post/126288206050/jamiekinosian-i-mostly-appreciated-this-ship-at) or on their blog. (And just check out their blog in general - there's just so many great fiddlestan pieces on there, you'll have a blast!)

He doesn’t deserve this.

He doesn’t deserve to run his bony fingers through thick grey hair. Or to have a large, warm hand clutching his shoulder. Or a calloused thumb massaging the skin under his collarbone.

But what he doesn’t deserve, more than anything else, is to have Stan Pines’ lips pressed so firmly against his own.

Stan’s eyes are closed; he’s completely immersed in the kiss. His mouth pushes down on Fiddleford in a gentle rhythm, pliable and inviting. Soft breaths squeak out from his nose to tickle a bearded cheek. And, every so often, a content moan rumbles from deep within his throat to vibrate through them both.

Fiddleford envies him his ability to let go. Of thirty years’ worth of frustrating encounters with the town nutcase. Of seeing great metal beasts threaten his business, his home, his family.

Of manic flashes that continue to this day.

Stan has been so incredibly patient. Shushing him, quietly, methodically, until he stops spouting those frightening strings of gibberish. Catching hold of his wrists to keep him from pulling out more of the thin hairs on top of his head. Holding him in the dead of the night when memories he almost wishes had stayed forgotten invade his dreams.

A month ago he’d been eating from the man’s trash.

How had they come to share a bed?

Stan pulls away from the kiss slowly, blinking open kind, mischievous brown eyes that instantly find his. That are awe-inspiring and intimidating all at once.

Fiddleford’s gaze flits down to watch full lips curl over his name, “Fidds,” before his attention is drawn upwards again by a hand cupping the back of his head and guiding their foreheads to meet.

“I wantcha ta know,” is spoken gruffly into the wisp of air left between them, “I ain’t _ever_ been this happy.”

He shouldn’t deserve this tight, shuddering, _wonderful_ feeling in his chest. Or the freedom to take a long, crushing kiss for himself. The complete bliss that comes with shutting his eyes and finally losing himself in the experience.

But somehow, despite everything he was and everything he’s done, Stan believes he does. 

And who is he to doubt him?


	10. A Man in Uniform

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit for the idea of Stan and Fiddleford having these particular kinks goes to stan-prompts (who writes excellent fics, check them out!) on tumblr.

"I’m _so_ _sorry_ officer. Couldn’t you let me go with a _warning_?”

“Uh…”

Stan’s simpering smile, the attractive expression he’d spent _hours_ practicing in front of the mirror, dropped. He swallowed thickly, put off but still determined to make this work. Leaning forward, he let the words, “Isn’t there _something_ I could do,” curl slowly past his lips, then lowered his voice to a husky whisper, “to change your mind?”

“Ah…”

“ _Fidds!_ ” Stan whined, finally breaking character to throw his hands up in the air. “Would you just _frisk_ me, already!”

A hand shot up to rub at Fiddleford’s brow, displacing the velvety black cap Stan had picked out especially for him. The shiny metal emblem at its front (it had an eagle at the top and a big star in the middle, he’d thought Fidds would like it) gleamed in the soft light.

“Ah’m sorry Stanley, this whole thing’s just a tad strange to me,” Fiddleford explained guiltily. He clutched the thin tie at his collar, tugging at it while he let out a pathetic whimper. “Ah’m not very good at being all authoritarian-like.” He bit his bottom lip and a cute blush darkened his cheeks. “Ah’m not exactly sure what about it you find so appealin’.”   

The admission made Stan grin. “Wait’ll we get to the handcuffs,” he replied, with an expert waggle of his eyebrows.  

Fiddleford didn’t laugh like he’d expected, but stared uneasily down at his feet.

Stan’s stomach gave an unpleasant lurch. His grin was gone.

It would be a shame, really, to just waste that tight-fitting, neatly-pressed uniform. Fidds did look great in it…  

But no one could say Stan Pines wasn’t flexible.

Grabbing the end of Fiddleford’s tie, Stan pulled him in until their chests were nearly touching. He pressed his cheek against Fiddleford’s to hum in his ear,“Or maybe you’re just grouchy ‘cause you missed your check-up with Dr. Pines?” Keeping a firm hold of the tie with one hand, Stan let the other trail purposefully down Fiddleford’s side.“I think we might just have an _opening_ today,” he rumbled, reaching around to make his point clear, “if you wanna make an _appointment_.”

Fiddleford shivered against him and Stan smiled.

A quick costume change wouldn’t hurt.


	11. Rollerskates

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An anonymous user on tumblr inspired this story by asking: Has fiddleford ever seen stan roller skate in his tiny shorts X)
> 
> (Reminder, since both of the Pines brothers appear in this story, that this one uses post-atots names: Grunkle Stanley and Author Stanford).

There was an odd sound echoing through the 'Shack; high-pitched and jittery, not quite mechanical, but not like any animal Stan had every heard before. He was halfway down the stairs on his way to check in the kitchen when it suddenly stopped. 

He listened for a few minutes, one foot on the step below, but the house was silent. Except… there were voices coming from the living room. 

Well, he had nothing better to do.

It was the ‘Fords, Fiddlestick and Stanford. They were sitting together on Stan’s armchair, their shoulders pressed together, their heads tilted down towards each other, and Fidds’ glossy white beard dangling in his brother’s lap.

Stan felt his teeth clench. 

What the heck were they doing all _smushed_ _up_  when there were plenty of other places to sit in this dump? Like right there, at the poker table! Those were some high quality chairs, too; you could spill stuff on them, anything you wanted, and it’d wipe off in a snap! Plus the nerds could get a lot more _work_ done (like they were _supposed_ to be doing - wasn’t that why Fiddleford had started coming 'round the 'Shack again in the first place?) if they _just_ got _out_ of _Stan’s chair_.

He was about to tell them to move their butts when that weird noise rang out again, so loud it made him jump. A couple of anxious seconds later, Stan finally recognized that sound for what it was: laughter.

 _Fiddleford’s_ laughter.

The hillbilly had his head thrown back to expose one side of that long neck. Deep crows’ feet flared out from where his eyes were closed tight and pink lips were pulled back thin against his mismatched teeth.

It was… nice to see Fidds looking so happy. Stan would take that braying, _grating_ , laugh any day if it meant seeing him like that.

“Stanley!”

Ford’s call brought Stan back to himself roughly. His brother had one hand up in greeting, waving him over, while the other was snaking its way around Fiddleford’s shoulders.

Stan might have just marched right out of there if Fidds' bright blue eyes hadn't caught hold of him at that moment.

“What, uh, what’re ya guys doin’?” Stan asked carefully as he approached them. When he’d made it to Fiddleford’s side he saw a big book open on his lap; a photo album.

 _Sweet Moses_.

“Where - how’d you - _gimme_  that!” Stan screeched, yanking the album away with such force that some of the pages tore at the seams. It didn’t matter though - he’d be burning those pages before the day was through.

He’d thought this album was long gone; how the devil had _they_ gotten hold of it?

Stan walked past the jokers cackling at his expense without sparing them a single glance. The old furnace in his bedroom would get the job done, he thought, hurrying toward the stairs.

But Fiddleford’s voice stopped him before he reached them. “D'ya still skate, Stan?”

The engineer was leaning against the doorframe to the living room when Stan turned to look at him, one leg bent so he could circle his toe shyly across the floor and his right hand rubbing at his other arm.

“Of course not,” Stan immediately replied. He cleared his throat when he saw Fidds flinch at his harsh tone and added, “These old bones? One good fall n’ I’d be toast," with a bit more humour. 

Fiddleford’s soft smile was his favourite reward.

He wasn't exactly prepared to have that warm flutter that popped up in his chest turn into an abrupt, all-consuming _burn_ , though.    

"Ya don’t still have those cute li'l shorts 'round here, do ya?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is set in a nice future where Stan still lives at the shack with Ford and Fidds has regained enough of his memory to do research again. So it's sometime in the fall or winter after Mabel and Dipper went back home. 
> 
> Wouldn't it be nice if that turned out to be canon? Haha.


	12. This Halloween

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Halloween of 2012 and Fiddleford and Stan go to pick out a pumpkin. From a stranger's perspective.

You watch them together, the two old men ambling about your wares. Not from around here, you think, but not city-dwellers either; they don’t look like the types to skink around Eugene with all the young punks and it’s even harder for you to imagine them up in Portland.

The taller one is dressed in a stiff black suit, his frown outlined by the thick stubble running along his jaw. The other blends in much better with the rest of your clientele, all bundled up in a cozy-looking blue sweater. Hand-knit, you’re sure of it, and with damn fine stitching.

This rather lanky gentleman moves with a bounce to his step. He’s almost childlike in how he tries to take in everything at once; pointing to the tray of beans (best in the county, guaranteed), bending low to eye the barrels of apples by the barn wall, snaking one liver-spotted hand out to touch every squash as he passes down that aisle… You really can’t help but find it endearing.

Despite this enthusiasm, you note that neither man has made a selection. They seem to have a single goal in mind here, and when they get to the crate of pumpkins and the shorter one dives, nose first, over the rim, you aren’t the least bit surprised. Tis the season, after all.

What does surprise you, after you’ve stopped watching for the bearded man’s head to pop back up, is how differently his companion carries himself. He’s standing there now, a couple of feet away, with both arms crossed stiffly over his chest. There’s a quality about him, a grimness to his appearance, that rubs you the wrong way. How can anyone look so solemn next to that ray of sunshine flailing about in the pumpkin crate?

How the man reacts to his partner’s choice doesn’t improve your opinion of him. The pumpkin is large, a good thirty inches round, and it’s quite a feat for those skinny arms to yank it out. Still, the wide grin on that wrinkled face overshadows the awkward fumbling he’d had to go through. There’s so much joy there… it just about breaks your heart to see the tall man behind him stoop down to squint, miserably, at the price.

You feel yourself bristle.

What kind of cheap, penny-pinching, _goober_ would travel all this way just to grumble about spending ten measly dollars?

His partner must have caught on because now you see him struggling to push the heavy gourd back over the side of the crate. Your heart drops when the gruff man takes the stem from him.

And yet he doesn’t toss it aside, as you expect him to do. Instead, he hefts the thing pointedly over one broad shoulder and turns towards you.

As they approach the counter the little one shifts until he is pressed up against the other man’s side. It isn’t until later, after you’ve spotted the arm wrapped around his waist from behind, that you realize he’d actually been pulled in there.

But first their pumpkin is dropped loudly, obnoxiously, in front of you.

You set to work: weighing it, writing out the receipt, counting their change. You glance up just in time to see the tall man, the one that hasn’t cracked a single smile since he stepped foot on your property, brush the sweetest kiss you’ve ever seen into his companion’s wispy grey hair. His eyes close peacefully while he lingers there and though the corners of his lips are still turned down when he pulls away, you can finally recognize the warmth and care in his expression.

 

It’s a lesson in understanding you won’t soon forget.

You hope they come again.


	13. How it Goes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here's a stream of consciousness exploring Stan and Fiddleford's relationship (after the events of canon) through sex - obviously that means there are mature themes in this chapter, but it's not explicit. I've also left the descriptions vague enough to be compliant with different headcanons.
> 
> Enjoy!

They always left the lights out.

It wasn’t that they were embarrassed, not exactly, though neither of them were spring chickens any more. They already saw each other naked on a near daily basis; changing in the same room, Stan walking around the house in his boxers on those hot days (and other days ending in y)… Heck, Stan had already had to rescue Fiddleford from the tub a dozen times since he’d moved in, guiding his bow-legged ass over the high porcelain rim with a cautious hold on dripping, wrinkled skin.

So their bodies weren’t a secret from each other. Stan had just always done it in the dark, whenever he had the choice. It didn’t matter how old he was; it was the way things were done back when he was growing up. Lights out, under the sheets, silent but for huffed breaths and soft whispers.

It was a good way of doing things. Proper. Intimate.

Fiddleford didn’t seem to care much what they did or how they did it. Maybe the views were different that deep in the South, or maybe he just didn’t remember he was supposed to have those kinds of hang-ups. Whatever the reason, they did it Stan’s way and Fidds never complained.

It meant nothing fancy – no acrobatics or tricks – just slow and steady, and always in the dark. Like how it’d been with Carla, and Becky, and Raul, back when Stan was sweet on them. (Not like Marilyn. Never again.)

But somehow, things were different when he was with Fiddleford.

Maybe because it was so long since he’d been with anyone that way. Or that it took so long for them to get there.

For months they’d slept in the same bed together hardly even touching, and that had been amazing in itself. To have a body lying next to his warming the sheets, his toes. To feel steady breath on the back of his neck. To wake up in the morning looking into bright, shiny blue eyes.

Stan hadn’t thought there could be anything sweeter. 

So Fidds started it, the first time. Stan had been dozing, going over the day’s sales, profits, and losses like he did every night when he’d felt thin dry lips press lightly against his own.

He’d smiled. Whispered, “G’nigh’ Fiz,” after they pulled away. There’d been warmth spreading out from his chest, working against his whirring thoughts to lull his mind to blissful rest,when those lips came back for another quick peck. And then again, and again; against his jaw, the corner of his mouth, his chin…

At the wet slide of a tongue against his gums, Stan’s eyes had finally opened. He’d blinked up at Fidds’ smirk, raised eyebrow, crinkled nose, then had thrown a lazy arm out for the glass on the nightstand with his dentures.

Fidds was obviously not keen on letting Stan sleep. Maybe there’d be a good late night movie on downstairs. A couple of hours curled up against Stan’s side in the armchair usually did the trick in knocking Fidds out.

But before he could actually catch hold of the glass (it’d been after midnight and his dexterity wasn’t the greatest at the best of times), Fiddleford had moved over him and gone right back to exploring his mouth with that tongue.

Stan could be a little slow on the uptake, even he could admit that. But the amount of time it’d taken him to realize where Fidds’ head had been that night was downright embarrassing. He’d only caught on after some very deliberate, very _on point_ , rubbing by a bony thigh.

A bony thigh that’d given just the right amount of pressure to have Stan seeing stars.

It’d been kind of a mess after that, but in all the best ways possible: shaking hands on hips, wet spots of spilled lube on the sheets, a few missed thrusts and nervous, stuttering laughter…

It’d been perfect.

With enough practice, the act had gotten easier, smoother. But they still had their difficulties; things Stan had never had to face with other partners. It was mostly due to their age, to bodies that had stood up against time and gotten a little more than roughed up, but some of it was just them.

Fiddleford McGucket and Stanley Pines.

And all the baggage they carried between them.

Like nights when Stan’s back felt on fire, stretched raw and worn down to the bone from carrying stock and cleaning shelves. He’d try to hide it, at first, rolling Fidds over and gripping his wrists above his head to prove, to himself mostly, that he could still keep up.

But something about the way Stan carried himself those nights, too stiff probably, or maybe how tight he clenched his jaw, would tip his boyfriend off and then he’d be the one on his back, with fingers curling around his sides to dig in and massage the muscles there. If he still managed to convince Fidds to keep going (and there were plenty of times when it just ended there, soothing hands and apologizing kisses guiding him to sleep), it would be with the smaller man on top, rocking as slowly as possible to keep from jostling Stan’s tired back. Stan might grumble about it, about being handled so delicately, but he was always secretly grateful. And much, much looser when they finally hit the hay.   ****

Other nights, right in the middle of things, Fiddleford’s mind would wander.

At the worst of it, his body would seize up, he’d lose control of his breaths, and his eyes would glaze right over. It always scared the shit out of Stan. But he knew Fidds couldn’t help it, couldn’t stop the anxiety slushing through his veins, so he would just sort of curl around him, squeeze his arms tight, hold still, deep inside, until Fidds’ trembling muscles relaxed again.

Until he arched up and begged Stan to move; “S’okay. I can do this Stanley, swear.”    

Then Stan would start again, but he’d never loosen his hold. Not while their chests heaved with heated exertion. Not once their heads fell, blissed-out, against Fiddleford’s pillow with sweet release. Not even after Stan had rolled them to their sides to settle in for the night.

It was something Fidds needed, once in a while. To be held tight. Anchored.

Stan was more than happy to be the one to ground him. If he had to hold him close like this for the rest of their lives he would do it with a smile on his face.

And maybe he’d do it anyways.


	14. Family, Glimmer, Warmth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Oh hey, I guess I should post this here too...)
> 
> For the Fiddlestan Holiday Bonanza on tumblr (you can see most of the fics posted by tumblr authors and the rules for this holiday event on my blog - fiddlestanfiction.tumblr.com/tagged/fiddlestan-holiday-bonanza) for the three word prompt I've used as my title. 
> 
> This story features explicitly trans Fiddleford. Some warnings for transphobia and domestic abuse (from Fiddleford's mother in the past - the story takes place a little after current canon). There's a happy ending though, I promise!

The ornament is old. The colour of the glass has faded to brown from a rich red, the frosted letters on its surface are worn along the edges, and the ribbon from which it hangs is horribly frayed. It is one of only a half dozen tree ornaments left over from Fiddleford’s childhood. All this time they had been kept for him, wrapped in fluffy tissue paper, in a box at his ex-wife’s house. Tate brought them over this morning, to help his dad celebrate what will be his first real Christmas in thirty years.

This ornament brings to mind another first Christmas; the one after Fiddleford’s birth, when his own father had had it specially made for his mother. Such a practice wasn’t common then, but Walter McGucket had been a bit of a romantic. It had been his mother’s favourite ornament, then. She’d kept it in a silk-lined box all of its own, tucked away on a top shelf in their basement where it was safe from the spring flooding and vermin. For many years it was the first ornament on the tree, placed in a spot of honour in the very centre.

Fiddleford can almost see the proud smile she’d once worn reflected on its gleaming surface.

His father died of a heart attack when he was eight years old. It had been hard, losing him so young, but part of Fiddleford is relieved thinking about it now. The attack spared his father heart ache of a different sort and as little as Fiddleford remembers of the man, he’s certain he’d deserved that kindness, at least.

On another first day, the first New Year’s Eve after Fiddleford came out to his mother, she’d locked him in the hall closet all night to keep him from going to a party in a tie and trousers. He’d screamed himself hoarse pleading with her to open the door – he’d have worn whatever she’d wanted if she had just let him _out_ – but it’d been of no use. He’d woken to the click of the lock, curled on the floor and damp with urine, late the next morning.

The first morning of 1965.

_Happy New Year._

That Christmas, his mother left the special silk-lined box sitting on its shelf in the basement while she’d decorated the tree without him. She did it the year after, too. And then, when Fiddleford had been packing for college the summer of ‘66, piling every dress and high-heeled shoe he’d been forced to own in a corner of his bedroom, the little box had found its way into the bottom of his duffel bag, rescued from what was sure to have been a very lonely future.

Arms wrapping around his waist pull Fiddleford from these thoughts. There’s a cup of cocoa being held out in front of him and he leans back gratefully against Stan’s chest while taking it in hand. ****

It doesn’t occur to him to put the ornament down until it’s too late. 

“What’s that, Fidds?”

Stan’s fingers wrap their way around the bauble, lift it up…

It takes all of Fiddleford’s courage (and a very deep breath in) to turn around and face him.

Stan is staring rather intensely at the ornament in his hand. “One of those ‘Baby’s First X-mas’ kinda dealies?” he asks, glancing up just long enough to catch Fiddleford’s nod. Then his eyes seem to cross and crinkle at the edges and that’s when Fiddleford knows he’s reading the cursive writing on its front.

_Francine, 1948._

“It’s gorgeous,” Stan whispers.

There’s a softness to his voice that Fiddleford would do anything – _anything_ – not to destroy, but he knows that it’s time for the confession to be made; if he doesn’t say it now he never will.

“It’s mine.”

Stan’s face sort of… cracks, then, and even though Fiddleford was expecting it, seeing it happen still hurts like nothing else.

So he closes his eyes and waits for his world to collapse, once again.

“Geez, Fidds.”

Hearing that nickname, the one that has been called, shouted, _whispered_ by the man before him so often these last glorious months, makes Fiddleford’s eyes feel hot and heavy behind their lids. _Please, not now_.  

“You’re _old!_ ”

It takes a long (much too long) moment for that to register, but then Fiddleford is openly gawking at his partner. “Wh-what?”

“Sorry, just didn’t realize you were robbing the cradle here,” Stan replies with a rather toothy grin. “Not that I blame ya, or anything,” he finishes, rolling the sleeve of his right arm so that he can flex the muscle there smugly.

The whole spectacle is ridiculous and Fiddleford can’t help but giggle at the sight. Some of the anxiety gripping at his innards has loosened its hold. “Yer not exactly a spring chicken yourself, darlin’,” he says fondly, tilting his head down to look shyly up at Stan from under his lashes.

“So, this ornament a’ yours…” Stan’s expression has grown serious again and Fiddleford sobers quickly. “You’ve been keeping it a long time, huh? And it’s pretty fragile.”

He pauses expectantly so Fiddleford nods, although he isn’t sure where Stan is heading with this.

It seems to be the right answer because Stan’s entire body relaxes. “I promise I’ll be careful with it,” he murmurs.

And then Stan is walking to their half-decorated tree, holding Fiddleford’s ornament by its ribbon with one hand and cupping the other beneath it to catch it should it fall. He hangs it gingerly, front and centre, but looks back at Fiddleford before he moves away.

There’s a question in that glance.

Fiddleford’s answer is a slow, grateful kiss.  


	15. The Sound of Silence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something short and sweet for 'Weirdly Romantic Fiddlestan Day' on my tumblr account (you can find all of the posts on my blog from that day if you missed it at this link: http://fiddlestanfiction.tumblr.com/tagged/weirdly-romantic-fiddlestan/chrono

Sometimes Fiddleford stops talking for awhile. 

It’s not that he’s mad, giving Stan the silent treatment, or something (that’s really not Fidds’ style anyways - he’s much more of a 'shout his head off for a few minutes, forgive, then go back to being bright and bubbly’ kind of guy) - he just plain loses his voice. Like he has laryngitis, despite being perfectly healthy. 

He’ll go days without saying a word, then suddenly Stan’ll wake to "Good morning!“ being shouted in his good ear, like nothing unusual's happened. 

Ford thinks it’s got something to do with Fiddleford living alone for thirty years, with no one to talk to but his reflection and a scavenging creature or two. Still, it worries Stan when it starts happening, origins be damned. 

He’ll be having a conversation with his boyfriend, laughing, teasing, and suddenly the world will get a little quieter than it should be. Fidds will listen to him - smile, nod - but he won't keep up his side of things. It hurts at first; Stan assumes it’s because of him not saying the right things (not being enough) to keep Fiddleford’s attention. But he realizes pretty quick that he still has it even when Fidds has gone quiet; those blue beauties stay on him while Stan chatters away, soft, loving…

And eventually, he starts to pick up on other things Fidds does on the days he goes quiet - the gestures he uses when he wants something or when he’s trying to get Stan to focus, the way he stands right at Stan’s side when he’s feeling anxious or grabs his hand and shakes it when he’s excited, how he’ll get a far-off look in his eye sometimes and then spend half a day building some amazing new machinery that’ll take the world by storm - and it gets easier. 

In fact, it gets to be that Stan hardly even notices when Fidds doesn’t talk for awhile. 

They still move together, earn their livings, keep up with their families and friends and the town -

\- whether Fidds whispers he loves him in bed at the end of the day or presses his warm hand over Stan’s heart.


End file.
